


Griefs of Joy

by Mertiya



Series: Day of Tears [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst with a Happy Ending, Different Love Languages, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Melodrama, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:34:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27579212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya
Summary: Twelve-year-old war orphan Margaret lives with her step-father, but their lives are turned upside down when her blood grandparents appear just after she and Indy have an argument.
Relationships: Indy Stewart (OMC) & Margaret Stewart (OFC)
Series: Day of Tears [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015921
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	Griefs of Joy

**Author's Note:**

> haha i wrote this like ten years ago and a bunch of other stuff in this verse but i still quite like it
> 
> please forgive infelicities of phrase and some Highly Overdramatic Bullshit, it gets kind of self-indulgent and Overdramatic in places
> 
> title from a poem by ee cummings ("my father moved through dooms of love")

“I _hate_ you!” Margaret slammed the door in her stepfather’s face, then flung herself on the bed, crying as loudly as she could manage, partly because she really was upset, partly because Indy spent such a long time trying to tell her she had to control herself and never let her emotions show. She was _tired_ of it. She was tired of the rules, when to go to bed, when to get up, when to do this, that or the next thing. She was tired of not being able to eat meat just because he had some stupid dislike of it. She was tired of getting up at the crack of dawn to check on the bees, and she was tired of the way all her clothing was home-made. Mostly, though, she was just tired of being the perfect daughter. There was simply no _point_. He didn’t love her. He’d made that eminently clear. All he wanted was another pair of hands about the house to help him and his stupid weak legs that meant she had to do all the chores, particularly since the quarrel he’d had with Carolyn two years ago.

She tried to keep crying, but the tears were not coming anymore. With a sigh, the twelve-year-old got up and went over to her window. The sun was setting beyond the dark hills; the grass rippled like water beneath the strengthening evening breeze. The sprawling landscape tugged at her, and she reluctantly remembered the walks she and Indy used to go on. She was much younger then, though, and Carolyn had been around to take care of the bees occasionally.

She sat down on the bed and drew her knees up to her chest. Her stomach rumbled miserably. Perhaps getting into an argument with Indy at suppertime hadn’t been so smart. She sighed and rubbed at her puffy, tear-streaked face. She was never going to fall asleep if she didn’t have something to eat. Maybe she could sneak down and snitch one of the honeycombs. No she couldn’t, not really. Indy had worked hard for every one of them. Maybe he didn’t love her, but he did take care of her, and she--she--she started sniffling and drew the rough woolen sleeve of her sweater across her nose before groping desperately for a handkerchief. She was going to start crying again.

A light knock on the door made her gulp and rub her eyes hastily with her hands. It couldn’t be Indy. Any time he sent her to her room he left her there till the morning. He never said anything about it the next day, either. She cautiously got off the bed.

“Margaret?” Indy called softly.

Was he going to say he’d been wrong? No, he never said he was wrong. Margaret felt her lower lip poking out stubbornly. “What?” she called defiantly.

“Open the door, please.” He sounded even more distant than usual.

Her lip trembled. “No!”

A sharp sigh. “Margaret, now.”

Unwilling, she trudged across the room and flung the door open. It slammed into the wall with a bang. Indy stood on the other side, leaning on the wooden canes Carolyn had given him years ago. His face was blank and unreadable. “Your grandparents are here to see you.”

She stared at him in confusion.

He put out a gentle finger and closed her open mouth. His face did not change. “Come on, then, don’t you want to meet them?”

He began his stiff journey down the hallway toward the stairs. He very rarely came up the stairs, even now. They were still hard on his legs.

She trotted after him, still trying to figure out what he’d been trying to tell her. Her grandparents? But she was an orphan…Carolyn’s friend Ellen had found her when she was four years old, just after the Day of Tears, washed up on the shore of Iona with a boy’s corpse. They said she’d called him Lewis, and if she tried very hard, sometimes she could come up with a blurry face framed with wispy blond hair, but she didn’t know if it was an actual memory or something that she just remembered because Ellen had told her about him. Whether he was any sort of relation of hers, though, she didn’t know. Nobody did. How could she have grandparents?

Indy walked ahead of her, his stooped form blocking the tiny hallway so she couldn’t get past. Why did he always have to move so slowly? Well, of course he couldn’t move faster, but he could have let her go first. She sighed loudly, but he didn’t react.

She almost danced in an agony of impatience when they got to the stairs and Indy had to sidle down them, grimacing in pain. Why couldn’t he have let her go first? Or at least explain? “Indy…” Her voice trailed off. He waved a weak hand at her, his breath coming in ragged grunts. Margaret rolled her eyes, then put her hands under his arm and helped support him as he moved downward. 

“Thank you,” he gasped as they made it to the floor. Margaret hunched up and shrugged. When she looked up again, there were strangers standing in the hall. 

Indy limped backwards as the man went to his knees and took Margaret in his arms. She caught a glimpse of black hair and flashing blue eyes as a strong voice cried, “ _Acushla_! Oh, Ursula, isn’t she the spitting image of our Ray?”

The woman--Ursula--moved stiffly forward and smiled. Faded blue eyes surrounded by a bush of graying blond hair regarded Margaret. “She is very like her,” Ursula said quietly. 

Margaret, not sure what to do, stood stiffly as the man pulled her back and looked her up and down. 

“Say hello, Margaret,” Indy’s soft voice said.

“Hello,” Margaret said automatically.

“You’re sure she’s your granddaughter then?” Indy asked.

“Oh yes,” the man said excitedly. “Even if we hadn’t known that she was found with her father--”

Indy’s head snapped up, and Margaret took a step back. “My _father_!”

She’d dreamed about her father and her mother as well. Not very often; there wasn’t really much chance that she’d ever find them. And she knew they were probably dead--so many people had died in the Day of Tears. But sometimes she allowed herself to hope--but--but-- “You mean Lewis?” she whispered.

She had a little paper book of matches that she always kept on her bedside table. There were a few scribbled lines in it, “Don’t forget to smile, Meggie. ~Lewis” There was a lock of blond hair, too. They said he’d saved her. They’d found her on the beach with a candle and just one match left, next to a boy’s body, a boy she’d told them was Lewis. But he’d been quite young. Probably not even twenty.

The man frowned. “Yes, Lewis was his name,” he said quietly. “And he was the right age. That’s how we knew that it was our Margaret.”

“Are you--Lewis’s--”

No, they couldn’t be. Could they?

Ursula was shaking her head. “Patrick, let go of the child,” she said. “She’s shocked by all this and no wonder. Margaret, your mother’s name was Raymonde, and she was our only daughter.”

“My…mother?” She’d never expected to know anything about her mother. “…was?”

“She’s been dead a long time,” Patrick said brusquely.

“You can tell me about her?” Margaret asked. 

“Of course,” Ursula responded.

Heat flooded Margaret’s face. They could tell her who her mother was! They wanted her; they were her grandparents! _Did_ they want her?

“Wh-why did you come find me?” she asked stammeringly, tucking her hands into her armpits as if she were cold.

“Dearest!” exclaimed Patrick. “Why, because we loved your mother and we want you to live with us, of course!”

They _did_ want her. No one had ever wanted her before. For some reason, she glanced uncomfortably over at Indy, but his stony face had no emotion in it. “You want me to come and…live with you?”

“We don’t live so very far away,” Patrick--her grandfather--said in a wheedling tone of voice. “Just on Skye, it’s only a short ferry-ride away, _acushla_.”

“Now, Patrick. Let the child take all this in.”

“I can--come live with you?” She paused, trying to assimilate it. “When…?” she asked haltingly.

“Tomorrow, if you like,” Patrick said excitedly. “We’re so happy to have found you, darlingest!”

“Don’t _rush_ her, Patrick.” Ursula looked over at Indy, and Margaret followed her gaze.

“It’s your decision, Margaret,” Indy said quietly. His voice was toneless.

She wanted him to say something more. She wanted him to beg her not to go. She wanted him to go down on his knees and say he loved her more than anything else in the world. But he wasn’t going to, because he didn’t, he didn’t care at all…

“All right,” she said heavily. “I’ll go. I--I don’t have many things, but--”

“We can send for them,” Patrick said eagerly. “We can come pick you up bright and early tomorrow morning.”

“All right,” Margaret said awkwardly. She looked over at Indy again, and he met her gaze steadily.

“We can be ready,” he said. “We can put a few outfits in the carpet-bag, and I can send the rest of your things on after you.” 

“All right.”

“You had better get some sleep, then,” he continued. “Tomorrow will probably be tiring.”

“Yes, Indy.” Margaret felt her head droop, and for some silly reason, her throat hurt. She felt tired and drained. She ought to be excited--her grandparents were here! They wanted her to live with them! She glanced back as she mounted the staircase. Indy was ushering her grandparents politely into their small sitting room. His long black plait curled down his back, and Margaret remembered with a moment of panic that tomorrow was Friday, and Friday was her day to comb Indy’s hair…She shook her head and continued up the stairs.

~

She sat hunched between Patrick and Ursula as the wagon drew away from the gate. It was quite early, and the morning breeze from the sea brought the tang of salt to her nose and lips. She glanced back. Indy stood ramrod straight at their white gate, his hand clenched tight about the fence to keep himself from stooping. His other hand was waving. Margaret waved a cautious hand and sent him back a half-wave before turning around again and resolutely watching the dark blue-grey sea approach.

“You should let your hair down,” Patrick said, gently letting one of her plaits slip through his hand. “It needn’t be so tightly up all the time. It makes you look like a little old woman.”

Margaret blushed and hunched her shoulders. “All right,” she said softly.

“Patrick, let the poor child alone,” Ursula said in an indulgent tone of voice.

“I’m sorry, dearling,” Patrick said penitently. “I just can’t believe we’ve found her after all this time.” He drew Margaret into his arms for an affectionate hug. It felt--nice. She nestled into his shoulder, and instead of just letting her, he squeezed her shoulder tightly beneath his hand and stroked her hair. “Can I undo your hair, just to see what you look like?”

“ _Patrick_ ,” Ursula said warningly. “At least wait till we’re home. Having her hair back like that is very sensible for traveling.” But she put a gentle hand on Margaret’s shoulder as well.

Margaret watched the patchwork quilt of the countryside passing and wondered. What had her mother been like? How had her grandparents found her? And why did they want her to live with them? She wasn’t anything special. Even when she got a perfect report card, Indy didn’t do anything but say, “Very good,” and then forget about it. He wouldn’t even get her the beautiful purple dress she’d seen last week. She’d never wanted anything more in the world. Well, that wasn’t _quite_ true. But she had wanted it an awful lot. She blushed. Of course they didn’t have a lot of money. Beekeeping wasn’t as profitable as some other occupations, but there weren’t a lot of options. Indy couldn’t exactly compete with people in most things that required physical exertion, but he really had a way with the bees…

The bees were so beautiful, and so friendly. All her friends were scared of being stung, but she wasn’t afraid. She knew the bees would die if they stung her, so they wouldn’t, unless she was threatening the nest, and they knew she wouldn’t do that. Of course she wouldn’t. The countryside blurred past, seeming to darken and stretch out. She was very comfortably warm, tucked into her grandfather’s shoulder like this…He smelled of peppermints and cologne, a quaint old scent that was very, very relaxing…

She woke up to find herself being lifted down from the wagon. “I’m sorry!” she exclaimed.

“Nonsense, child, you’re tired,” her grandmother said briskly. “Now hurry, we don’t want to miss the ferry.”

She took Margaret’s hand possessively and led her toward the dock. Patrick--Grandfather--came behind them, carrying her carpetbag.

“I can carry it!” Margaret exclaimed.

“Don’t be silly, _acushla_ ,” beamed her grandfather. “I can manage something as light as this. You don’t need to bother yourself.”

Of course. He didn’t have to lean on two canes, so naturally he didn’t need her to help out. Still, it felt peculiar to be led along like a small child while somebody else carried her bags for her. Usually she did the carrying, and Indy took care of making sure they had the appropriate papers and talked to any officials they might run into.

On the ferry, there was a man selling hamburgers and ice cream. Margaret couldn’t help glancing his way. She’d always sort of wanted to try one of the stall-vendors products, but of course they didn’t eat meat and Indy didn’t usually have spare money for ice cream. He’d let her have some once, but it was a long time ago. She remembered it had been really really creamy and one of the most delicious things she’d ever tasted.

“Would you like something to eat, dearling?” asked her grandfather.

“Oh!” Margaret looked up at him and blushed. “Um, no, it’s fine.”

“We can afford it. You’re so thin, you could use some fattening up.”

“Okay,” she whispered in a small voice, and trailed after him as he went over and ordered a hamburger with ketchup and a chocolate ice-cream. He handed her a messy charred round thing between two greasy strips of bread in a bit of paper, and a tall cone which was already starting to drip in the sun. Hesitantly, she bit into the former. A greasy, heavy taste burst over her tongue. It was delicious.

Hungrily, she devoured it as her grandparents led her to a seat looking over the railing of the ferry. She looked up as she finished to find both of them looking down at her with smiles. “Thank you,” she whispered, suddenly embarrassed again.

“Go on, don’t let the ice cream melt,” her grandfather said.

Her stomach was already feeling pretty heavy, but she hadn’t even tried the ice cream. She licked at it. It was sticky and chocolatey and creamy, but it wasn’t as good as she remembered. Her head felt hot and there was a pain behind her eyes. She couldn’t leave it uneaten, though, that would be ungrateful. She tried to bite into it, but the cold hurt her teeth, and she shivered.

“Margaret, you needn’t eat all of it if you don’t want it.” Her grandmother put a gentle hand on her back.

Margaret flushed heavily. Of course it would be silly to make herself sick, but she didn’t like the idea of wasting food. But she was feeling really strange by this time, so reluctantly she handed the ice-cream back to her grandfather. “I--it’s delicious, thank you, I just--”

“You’re too thin, dearling, that’s all it is.” Patrick ruffled her hair. “Besides, I love chocolate ice-cream!” He grinned at her and began to lick it himself. She managed to smile back, and then sat back against the railing. The ferry had started to move quite smoothly away, and in a moment of sudden panic, she stood up and looked back, but she couldn’t see her--Indy’s house anymore. Of course she couldn’t, she’d fallen asleep in the wagon leaving. She sat back down.

“What should I call you?” she asked suddenly. “Grandfather and grandmother?”

“Those sound so serious,” smiled her grandfather. “So solemn. Darling, we love you, we’re your own heart’s blood. Why not call us Nana and Papa?”

Margaret wanted to say that she _liked_ solemn sometimes, but after all, if they’d prefer her to call them Nana and Papa, that would be the most polite thing to do. “All right,” she said. “Papa.”

“You call us whatever you feel most comfortable with,” Ursula--grandmother--Nana said, giving her husband a reproving look. “Don’t force too many changes on the child at once.”

Patrick melted a little in front of his wife’s gaze. “Of course, of course. Your grandmother’s right. You call us whatever you like, Margaret.”

She nodded, but the motion hurt her swimming head. She swallowed hard. Her stomach was feeling really peculiar. Maybe if she shut her eyes--no, that was worse. She couldn’t tell which way was up and which was down when she did that.

“Margaret?” her grandmother’s concerned voice said. “Are you all right.”

“I--” She opened her mouth and her eyes at the same time. The bright light speared into her head and her stomach rebelled suddenly. She clapped her hand to her mouth, but it didn’t help. The rush of bile just stopped at her hand, flooding her mouth with sour, greasy taste and making her vomit harder. She dropped to her hands and knees, her body heaving. Strong hands held her shoulders, and someone pulled her hair back from her face. A voice murmured comforting things into her ears as her stomach contracted and contracted again.

Finally, she managed to stop, shuddering miserably as she sat up onto her knees. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she sobbed.

“Oh, Margaret, it’s all right.” Her grandfather pulled her into his lap. “Ursula, will you get the _cailin_ a glass of water and tell someone there’s a bit of a mess over here?”

She heard Ursula murmur assent and move away. “I’m sorry,” she cried miserably. She sniffed and tried to control the tears.

“It’s my own fault for giving you too much to eat, sweetheart,” her grandfather said, petting her hair. “The same thing happened when we took your mother to the seaside when she was just a tiny girl. Now you just remember, you don’t have to eat anything you don’t want to.”

But she _had_ wanted to eat it. She’d been hungry. Now her stomach just hurt, but it had been fine until after she’d _finished_ the hamburger. It didn’t make sense. She felt tired and her stomach hurt and her head hurt and she didn’t want to think anymore. She fell into a half-sleeping doze, waking up when Ursula came back with a glass of water for her to sip and again when a kind ferry-attendant came by to mop up the vomit. She started to get up and offer to help, but her grandparents wouldn’t let her, and she just shut her eyes again and tried to ignore how her stomach and head were hurting.

The ferry ride wasn’t very long, but by the time they’d arrived at Skye, it had clouded over and started to rain. Margaret’s first sight of the other island was through a haze of white mist, and she was shivering despite having dug her waterproof out of her carpetbag. 

Her grandparents whisked her off the ferry and flagged down a taxi--an actual car! There weren’t a lot of cars around and they were really expensive. She didn’t say anything, but Grandmother--Nana--must have seen the way her eyes went big because she said briskly, “You’ll find we’re well enough off, child. Your grandfather runs quite a large company--well, large by today’s standards.”

The taxi let them off in front of a big house set well back from the bustle of the town. “We’re going to put you in Ray’s room, of course,” Papa told her as he led her up the drive. “I mean, of course it isn’t really Ray’s room, but it’s the room with all her things in it, left just the way she liked them. I think even her clothing will fit you!”

Margaret couldn’t think of anything to say, but she couldn’t stop the smile either. Her own mother’s _room_!

It turned out to be a small, pretty room with wallpaper covered in delicate yellow flowers. The bookshelves were lined with books and the closets were filled with clothes--several pairs of jeans, lots of shirts and a few dresses. They smelled old and musty, which was disappointing, if unsurprising. She’d sort of hoped they would still magically smell like her mother--her mother, whose name was _Ray_. Raymonde, but her parents called her _Ray_ , and they talked about her a lot.

The first thing Ursula and Patrick did was tell her she ought to get out of her wet clothes, so she shyly looked through the closet and found a red jumper and a white blouse. They were just a little too big, and she had to roll up the sleeves--her mother must have been a bit taller than she was. She remembered that her grandfather had wanted to see her with her hair down, so she unbraided it and brushed it out. She didn’t usually wear it loose because it was so long and got in her face, but it was the least she could do, she supposed. She came cautiously down the steps and into the living room where her grandparents were sitting, reading.

Patrick looked up first. His face went white, and the book he was holding dropped to the ground with a soft thud. The noise startled Ursula, who looked up as well, and gave a faint cry.

“I’m sorry!” Margaret exclaimed. “What’s wrong?” She instinctively took a step backward. Her grandmother put a hand to her mouth and made a strangled noise that was half gasp, half sob. Her grandfather rose slowly from the chair. “Come here, child, will you?” he said hoarsely. She obeyed instantly, and he put trembling hands around her face and let her long hair spill slowly out from them. There were tears in his eyes.

“Did I do something wrong?” Margaret asked in a small voice.

“No, no, honey, oh, no, never!” He hugged her tightly. “You just look so--so like--You’re the image of--your mother. I’ll show you.”

“I’ll get the album, Patrick,” her grandmother put in gently. “Just you sit with her.”

“Would you sit in my lap, _acushla_?” her grandfather asked quietly.

“Oh--all right.”

It was a little awkward. She hadn’t sat in someone’s lap in years. She’d been too heavy for Indy’s legs when she was still quite a little girl, and it felt--babyish. She was almost twelve years old, after all.

Ursula set a large, leatherbound book in her lap and sat down beside them. “Go on, Margaret, open it.”

She gingerly opened the large cover. It was a photo album, as she’d expected. On the first page was a picture of a pretty girl with long dark hair, smiling up from a piano.

“That’s your mother,” her grandfather said, and Margaret smiled as well.

Her grandparents were right--she _did_ look like her mother. Both of them had the same long dark hair and dark blue eyes. Her nose was a little more crooked, and so were her teeth.

“She has a nice smile,” Margaret mumbled.

“Turn the page,” her grandfather instructed, with a rumbling laugh. On the next page was the same girl, a little younger, now sticking out her tongue from between giant wire contraptions on her teeth.

“Those are braces, right?” They weren’t very common anymore. A few of the richest kids in the school had them. Sometimes one of the more tiresome ones bragged about them, but Margaret’s friend Chelsea told her they were mostly a nuisance, really.

“Yes. She hated those braces, but that’s why her teeth are so straight.”

“Maybe we should see about getting you some braces,” put in her grandmother, then laughed gently as Margaret shifted uncomfortably. “Don’t worry, honey, you’re a bit old for them now, and your teeth are straighter than Ray’s were.”

For the next hour, they flipped through the photo album. After the first two pages, it was chronological, starting with a thin, serious baby gazing solemnly at the camera from the arms of a much younger Ursula. There were pictures of birthday parties, Christmas parties, dinner parties, and also snapshots of every-day life. Margaret particularly liked one in which Ray, about eight years old, was standing in the kitchen in an apron and kerchief, looking up guiltily from a bowl of something she’d been mixing. The entire kitchen was covered in batter and flour, and Ray herself looked like a floury ghost.

“She was trying to surprise us with cookies,” Patrick said fondly. “She made _such_ a mess of the kitchen.”

“Patrick was about to be angry,” Ursula put in in her clipped voice, “but he started to laugh instead. After that, we couldn’t exactly send her to her room, but we did make her help us clean it up.”

“Wasn’t there a war on?” Margaret asked quietly. “What about the rations?”

“Oh, we’ve always been well-off.” Patrick waved his hand. “We didn’t want our Ray to be affected by the war, if we could avoid it.”

“Until it couldn’t be avoided, of course.” Ursula’s voice was distant, and Margaret went back to flipping through the album. As she came to the end, a snapshot fell out and floated to the ground.

“I’ll get it!” She hopped off her grandfather’s lap and picked it up curiously. 

Most of the photographs were clearly from a good camera, but this one was a greying snapshot with heavy bands of white around the edges. One of Margaret’s friends at school had had a really old camera that took instant pictures like this.

The picture was of a very skinny Ray leaning against a boy’s shoulder. He had longish blond hair and an anxious expression in his light blue eyes that didn’t really fit with the carefree lines of his face. Both of them were about fifteen or sixteen. Ray was wearing blue jeans and a baggy white t-shirt that stretched over her bulging stomach. Margaret looked at the boy with the blond hair again. Was his face familiar? She wasn’t sure. Her stomach twisted up.

“Is that Lewis?” she whispered.

“I didn’t mean for you to see that picture,” Ursula said quickly.

“Oh, but, please--is that Lewis?”

“Never you mind.” Ursula’s voice was suddenly harsh.

“I-I’m sorry,” Margaret stammered.

Her grandmother got up and walked away. Margaret watched her, distressed. Patrick put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Margaret,” he said. “It’s just that your grandmother doesn’t like to speak about that boy.” 

“But he saved my life,” Margaret whispered. “And--and--was he my dad?”

Patrick sighed heavily. “I think you’re a little young for this,” he said.

She got up and looked back at him. “Please, I just want to know who my dad is.”

Her grandfather looked away. His hands were clenched. “Yes. Lewis was your father. Your mother died shortly after you were born, and he took you away soon after that, against our express wishes. He vanished in all the confusion of the war, and we’ve been searching for you ever since.”

“Can I--can I keep this photo?” Margaret stammered.

For a moment, it looked as if he was going to refuse, but then he nodded. “All right. Margaret-- _acushla-_ -would you mind very much leaving me to myself for a little while?”

She shook her head and left the room, still clutching the photograph.

~

Days blurred together. She was sent to school. She tried to go with her hair conveniently up in its normal plaits, but her grandparents preferred it down, so she took to tying it up in a pony-tail during the schoolday and letting it down when they came to pick her up. The kids at her new school were nice; though she was shy of them, she soon made a few friends. 

She had some of the most beautiful clothing in the class. Her grandmother took her out shopping--really shopping--so she didn’t just have to wear her mother’s old things, though she noticed that both grandparents were especially happy when she wore something of Ray’s. Her grandfather bought her something almost every day--pretty little glass animals one day, a porcelain doll the next. She protested at the money he spent, but both grandparents smiled indulgently and said they could afford it.

Margaret started feeling guilty that she still took out her old stuffed teddy-bear to sleep with instead of sleeping with one of the new ones. She was starting to acquire kind of a zoo in her room. She also felt guilty because she wasn’t sleeping very well. It was the softest bed she’d ever slept in, but she always seemed to have a tummy-ache, and she didn’t want to wake her grandparents to bother them about it. So she lay awake and stared at the ceiling and wished (still guiltily) that it had a skylight like her old room.

She was throwing up a lot, too, and she couldn’t figure out why. Finally, the school nurse noticed and told her grandparents. There was a huge panic--which was half the reason she hadn’t told them in the first place--and they made her go to bed, even though she felt fine and said so. Then they called the doctor. Margaret, desperately embarrassed, answered all of his questions carefully and as accurately as she could.

He seemed puzzled at first, but when she said the first time she’d thrown up had been on the ferry after eating the hamburger, his face cleared a little. “Do you often eat hamburgers?” he asked gently.

“Not really,” Margaret mumbled. “I mean, I didn’t used to.”

He asked her a few more questions, about what her diet used to be and any sudden changes in it, then brought her grandparents in and explained that since she’d been a vegetarian all her life, her stomach couldn’t digest meat properly. If she wanted to eat meat, she could, but she should start with small amounts of white meat and fish if possible.

Margaret had never been so mortified in all her life.

Of course her grandparents told her it wasn’t a big deal at all and they apologized over and over again for giving her meat, they hadn’t realized that she had never eaten it at all. She had to say over and over again that it wasn’t their fault, that she should have explained better, that she hadn’t _realized_ that eating meat would be a problem or _of course_ she would have told them.

Her grandparents started serving her lighter meals, and the stomachaches mostly went away. She was still having trouble sleeping though. She began to have vivid dreams about Iona, in which she was walking down the road toward Indy’s house and all the bees flew out of their hive and buzzed around her reproachfully in such a thick cloud that she couldn’t see her way anymore, but she was afraid of flailing through them blindly, in case they got scared and stung her and died. So she just stood in the midst of a swirling cloud of buzzing, buzzing bees, and then she woke up crying.

About a month after she’d arrived, she got a letter from Indy. “Dear Margaret,” it said in his large, precise handwriting. “I hope you’re doing well in school, despite the uprooting--I’m sure you are, though. The bees miss you, I think. They’ve been more restless than usual. I’ll send you some honey when I have the next harvest. Several of your friends came by, and I have given them your address, so I expect you’ll be receiving more mail shortly. Good luck. ~Indy”

It was such a short, dry note, and all he could talk about was whether she was doing well in _school_ or not. Margaret ripped it to shreds and burst into tears. Papa caught her up in a bear-hug while Nana asked her what was the matter, and when she choked out something coherent, both of them patted her on the back.

“Don’t you worry about it, _acushla_ , he just didn’t understand you,” Papa said.

“The boy was too young to be raising a child,” Nana said. “Why, he was barely more than a child himself. Poor boy.”

_No_ , Margaret wanted to protest. Indy had always been more than capable, even with his handicap. It wasn’t fair to say he hadn’t taken care of her, he _had_. He just--didn’t love her. But she didn’t say anything.

In the middle of the night, she sneaked downstairs and painstakingly taped the letter back together. She stared at it for a long time before falling asleep.

A few weeks after that, Papa took her to see a movie called _Rainbow_. It was supposed to be a special treat, since going to the cinema was rather expensive, even for quite wealthy people like her grandparents.

_Rainbow_ was a dramatized documentary about the underhanded tactics of the American high command during the years leading up to the Day of Tears. Margaret munched on cardboard-like popcorn (wondering why it was supposed to be such a delicacy; she’d read about it in a lot of books dating from before the war) and watched a scowling general collect a group of big-eyed children from their families over a span of years. 

It was an episodic film, and it was very long. It purported to have found files of the American high command on a plane that had crashed nearby--which was certainly possible, given the chaos that had reigned during and after the Day of Tears--and it went in meticulous detail through dramatizations of the lives of seven children.

The first-- _Red_ \--was a boy from somewhere in Russia who led several raids against the occupying Chinese forces. The Americans tracked him down, shipped him back to their country, called him the “Red General” as some sort of political joke that Margaret didn’t really understand, and used him as propaganda against the Chinese.

After this, there was a scene in which several of the Americans discussed the possibilities of using talented children as part of a publicity stunt to boost home morale and lower enemy morale. They started putting out press releases in which it was heavily implied that several of the losses the Russians were dealt by the Americans were orchestrated by the Russian boy. As a piece of propaganda, it appeared to work spectacularly well.

_Orange_ was a Chinese girl who was brilliant at chess, who won the championship at age four. The American generals paid her mother a ridiculous sum of money to take custody of her, and there was a very moving scene in which the girl ran up to her mother, only to have the mother turn away and begin to count the money as the Americans picked the girl up and took her away.

Margaret, who hadn’t been feeling very well, had to close her eyes when _Yellow_ started, and she didn’t catch much of it except that by this time the Americans were also brainwashing the children and trying to find extra-talented ones from all across the world, particularly children who didn’t fit in. She didn’t intend to go to sleep, but when she woke up again they’d reached _Indigo_.

The first shot of the segment was of a small boy standing on a cracked sidewalk watching a plane take off. It turned out to be the plane of a Japanese businessman who had been on his last flight to Poland. His three-year-old son had begged him not to leave, but he had. 

The movie showed Lew Mortkowicz’s home in a bustling household with a mother who had two older children by her husband. The movie included a lot of shots of the boy reading books in out-of-the-way places or listening while his mother and her husband argued about him. Occasionally, bombs fell or soldiers marched through the streets.

Lew read books and after being sent away to boarding school at a very young age, he began to play with some old scientific equipment that he found in an old laboratory. One of his teachers found him with it and immediately recognized that he had talent. He was sent through the science curriculum rapidly and by the end of the year had entered a project in a citywide science fair. It won.

Of course, this brought Lew to the attention of the American High Command, who were looking for a candidate for their sixth general, the Indigo General. Margaret, who had been half-asleep--her head was really hurting, for some reason--sat up straight as soon as the name was mentioned. Why hadn’t she realized when they started watching the movie what it was going to be about? She didn’t want to watch this.

She knew a little about Indy’s past--he had told her several years ago that he had been an American General. He had told her that he had been called the Indigo General, and that he had done evil things in his past, in his dry, emotionless voice. Margaret hadn’t known how to react; she hadn’t understood why he’d told her-- _what_ he‘d told her. It had been Carolyn who’d salvaged things. Indy still didn’t know that the doctor had taken Margaret aside and explained to her clearly who the Indigo General had been--that some of what he had done had been evil, but that he had been taught to do things for a group of evil men from a young age, that he was not evil, that he was, as Carolyn put it “seeking atonement.” Margaret had had to go look up the word “atonement” in a dictionary.

Onscreen, the young Lew was going through a battery of tests intended to gauge his abilities. The administrators of the tests reported that he scored “off the charts” in everything. Margaret felt her cheeks flushing. She _shouldn’t_ be watching this. It was--it was an invasion of privacy.

“Grandfather,” she whispered to Patrick, tugging on his sleeve, but he didn’t answer, and when she looked over, she saw that he was asleep. She didn’t want to waken him, and she could hardly leave without him. 

She glanced back at the screen, which was a mistake. The boy they had playing Indy didn’t look in the least like him--he had the same blue eyes and long dark hair, but that was as far as the resemblance went--and something about the wrongness of it made her stomach lurch. She realized that he and the audience were listening to one of the generals give a long speech about the necessity of “sacrifices” for one’s country.

Margaret resolutely shut her eyes and stuck her fingers in her ears. Better. She could barely hear the film anymore. As soon as Patrick woke up, she’d get him to take her out. She swallowed hard. Her stomach lurched again, and her head felt hard and oddly bright, the sounds filtering through her fingers sharp and tinny to her ears. She was really dizzy.

She had to open her eyes again soon and take her fingers out of her ears, because somehow it was making her feel sicker than ever. By now, thankfully, the film had moved on to _Violet_ and _Indigo_ was just a face fading into the background. She shifted uncomfortably and shivered. It was cold in here.

The background music swelled to a sinister climax as the generals began to discuss the subjugation of Britain.

“Who should take the credit for it?” one of them said with a laugh.

A low knock sounded on the wooden door behind them.

“Yes?” called another.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the boy on the other side, stepping quickly through. “I was wondering if I might request some more supplies for my laboratory.”

The heavy Eastern European accent jarred on Margaret’s ears. The quick, halting way the boy spoke was nothing like Indy’s measured tones.

The generals exchanged glances. “Come over here, Indigo,” one of them said.

“Yes, sir?” The boy dipped his head deferentially.

“Tactically, what is the best move in this situation?”

The boy’s eyes swept across the map in front of them. “I should move the troops there.”

“Very good. Off you go now, and we’ll see to it that your requisition is put through.”

The camera followed him as he turned to leave, his long, purple-tipped plait swinging behind him, but the voices of the generals were deliberately amplified for the audience’s benefit.

“The Indigo General--responsible for the destruction of 500,000 of Britain’s finest troops!” exclaimed one. “Yes, I like the sound of that.”

Perhaps catching his name, the boy turned in the doorway for an instant, and the camera focused on his white face. One of the generals raised a hand in a gesture of dismissal, and the Indigo General responded with a quick wave before exiting.

He didn’t look anything like Indy--he wasn’t Indy--but somehow the wave still upset her. The way he’d carried himself maybe was just a little like her sight of Indy standing ramrod straight as the wagon drove away. Margaret shut her eyes again and felt her stomach heave.

She was going to be sick. She shook Patrick’s shoulder, and he came awake with a woozy spasm. “…Ray? What is it?”

“Papa, I’m going to be sick,” Margaret choked out.

Being carried out of the cinema feeling as if she was going to vomit any minute was incredibly embarrassing. She wasn’t a baby anymore, but she felt terribly weak.

The ride home was dizzying and confusing. She kept seeing bees at the corners of her vision, but somehow when she turned her head, they were gone, in a burst of strange colors. She couldn’t seem to move properly either; whenever she moved at all, her head swam, and she felt like throwing up.

When they got back to her grandparents’ house, she tried to get out of the taxi, but her legs crumpled, and Patrick had to catch her. It was such a long way back to the house. Great black owls swooped out of the darkness at them, and her bees hid behind her. She tried to protect them, but the owls had the faces of the American high command, and they pulled out guns and shot the bees-- _ting ting ting_ \--with their little guns. All the bees fell down to the ground then, their eyes tight shut, their faces pinched, their tiny legs curled pathetically against their furry black-and-yellow chests, and every one of them had Indy‘s face.

It was so hard for Patrick to get her up the steps, because he was leaning on two canes and trying to carry her, but it was all right, because his extra four arms clasped tight about her and held her in place, even when she wanted to get down and walk. He spoke to her in a high, buzzing voice. Why was everyone a bee now? It was funny; it made her laugh, but that just made Patrick and Ursula argue in their high buzzing voices, highly and buzzingly.

It was nice to lie down, but she was so cold. There weren’t enough blankets. It wasn’t much fun, sitting up in bed in the middle of a raging blizzard. But the tiny snowflakes whirling around her head soon became tiny bees, pelting at her face. She held up her hands to ward them off, but they wouldn’t listen to her anymore. She’d been gone too long. And the lightning and thunder drowned out her screams anyway.

When she woke again, her head was a little clearer. There was something under her tongue, and she gagged.

“Hold still, child,” said Ursula’s gentle voice. “We’re just taking your temperature.”

She and Patrick were standing by her bed. “It’s gone down a little,” Ursula said. “We’d better get in touch with Mr. Rider.”

Mr. Rider was Indy.

They walked away and began to talk in low voices at the corner of the room, so Margaret could only pick up a word here and there.

“…no idea how much he…worried _sick_ …maybe we shouldn’t…” Their voices droned on and on and then, abruptly, left.

She lay in bed, wearily trying to make sense of the conversation. They had been talking about Indy, and they had said--they’d said he was _sick_! Margaret struggled upright in bed. Oh no, he couldn’t be sick. Who would take care of him? Since he’d argued with Carolyn, he hadn’t had anybody but her, and she’d deserted him, left him all alone with no one but the bees. How could he possibly manage by himself with his poor legs? If he was sick, it was _her_ fault for leaving.

Margaret put a hand to her aching head. Her legs felt terribly weak as she swung them out of bed and hurried over to the closet to find her coat and scarf, but that was all right; her head was so light they didn’t need to be very strong.

~

Carolyn woke to a frenzied pounding on the door of her little flat. Groggily, she reached for her watch. Surely it wasn’t morning yet? Perhaps a patient, then. She dragged herself out of bed and after two tries managed to fumble her robe on over rather ratty-looking pajamas. She yelled, “Coming,” splashed a little water on her face to get herself awake, and ran for the door.

The Indigo General was leaning against her lintel. Carolyn took an awkward step back.

“Carolyn,” he gasped hoarsely. His black hair hung loose about his shoulders, and he was breathing heavily--which was no wonder if he’d just navigated the three flights of steps up to her room on the two canes he held clutched tight in his hands.

“Mr. Rider,” Carolyn said slowly, not sure how to address him. They hadn’t spoken since the huge quarrel they’d had two years ago. It had been all his fault, of course--stubborn _ass_ \--but as she gazed at his thin, pinched face and the bones standing out in his cheeks and wrists, she began to wonder if maybe she hadn’t been being a little selfish. Childish.

“Please, Carolyn, for anything I’ve done to cause you hurt, I’m terribly sorry, but you’ve got to help me.” He was near collapse, she suddenly realized, and with that realization was hit with a wave of returning feeling she thought she’d conquered months ago. Along with that came a hot flash of anger.

“Indy, what the hell are you thinking? You’ll catch your death!”

He was clad only in a thin shirt and jeans that hung loosely on his skinny frame, and he was soaked. He opened his mouth and shut it again as she cut him off. “I _don’t_ want to hear it. Get in here and let me make you something hot and get you out of these wet clothes.”

He was shaking his head wearily. “Carolyn…it’s Margaret.”

She stopped in mid-step. Something very cold seemed to reach into her chest and touch her heart. “What’s--happened?” she forced out.

Indy threw himself into a chair. “I don’t think you knew that she went to live with her grandparents about a month ago?”

“Her _grandparents_?”

Indy nodded wearily, his brilliant blue eyes narrowed to slits. “Yes, they managed to track her down and wanted to take her to live with them. There was no way I could refuse--and Margaret said she wanted to go.” The last tore out of him so wretchedly that Carolyn put down the kettle in which she’d been about to make tea to go over and take his hand. He clutched at it convulsively, like a drowning man who’d been thrown a lifeline.

“But…why…?” Carolyn asked limply. Hadn’t the child _known_ how desperately, all-consumingly her stepfather cared for her? Then she almost laughed at herself. Indy’s thumb was almost absently caressing her hand. He was an idiot, a stubborn idiot--but she’d been one as well, hadn’t she? And how could she expect Margaret to see from Indy’s behavior that he loved her--if she hadn’t?

Indy looked up at her, his blue eyes dull. “Why not?” He rubbed his hand across his face. “Oh god, that isn’t the point. Of course she wanted to go--I could hardly stop her from going to live with her own flesh and blood, could I? That isn’t--that isn’t--” His voice broke and he brought a fist down onto his knee with crushing force.

Carolyn had never seen him so upset. As a matter of fact, she had never seen him respond to any emotion--grief, unhappiness, anger--with anything other than a blanker face, a colder voice. She caught at his hand. “What _happened_ , Indy?”

“She’s gone,” he said bleakly.

“Gone?” Carolyn repeated blankly.

Indy gulped and, with a great effort, straightened himself up. “She was ill. Some sort of fever. Her grandparents left the room to call the doctor. When they returned, she was gone, and so was her coat and hat.”

Carolyn dropped to her knees beside him. “Oh, Indy,” she whispered. “God--I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, convulsively. “My fault,” he muttered absently. “Please, Carolyn, help me find her. I can’t--on these legs--I can’t go out and look, and I have no telephone, nothing. Her grandparents have spoken to the police already.”

Carolyn didn’t suggest they leave it to the police; there was no way that would be good enough. She took his hand. “Where is she?”

“Skye,” Indy answered.

“Then we’ll go to Skye. I’ll get a taxi. Just sit right here.”

When she got back, his head was sunk in his hands, but he looked up as she came in and nodded. “Thank you. I will--I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.”

She shook her head as they went down the stairs. “That’s not necessary.”

“It’s necessary,” he said tightly, and she didn’t insist.

The ride to the ferry was short and silent. Indy stared out the window at the growing dusk, while Carolyn tried desperately to think of something to say. If only they hadn’t argued--if only she still knew the words to say to comfort him. If there were any words that could be said. She reached out a hand to lay on his shoulder, hesitated and drew back. He had always shied away from physical contact, but to her surprise, his hand caught her retreating one and pushed it down onto his shoulder. He didn’t speak.

A light, grey drizzle was becoming a heavy, cold downpour as they boarded the ferry. Carolyn made a motion toward the brightly-lit cabin where most of the passengers were crowding. Cheerful jangling music emanated from inside. Indy deliberately sat down on one of the sodden benches by the side, flicking his long black hair back in a gesture that might have been self-conscious in someone else.

Carolyn considered forcing him to go inside, but the large crowds of people might be worse for him than the pelting rain. She settled for sitting beside and determinedly digging out an umbrella that she kept in her satchel for just such eventualities. When she put it up over both their heads and it was not greeted by a snide remark, she worried even more.

The ferry pulled away from the dock, and soon the shore was lost in the driving rain. As the last of the passengers trickled into the inner rooms, the door swung shut behind them, leaving the exterior deck of the ferry dark and empty.

After a little while, Carolyn began to jitter her leg impatiently, but Indy remained utterly motionless and rigid, his face turned out in the direction of Skye. When she reached out gingerly to touch his arm again, she found the muscles taut and unyielding. His preternatural stillness was almost unnerving.

As her fingertips drew away, he suddenly reached out and grasped her hand. “Carolyn,” he whispered.

Awkwardly, she slid closer to him. “We’ll find her,” she said. It was the only thing she could think of to say, and she wasn’t even sure she believed it herself. But they _had_ to.

Indy’s face was quite blank as he turned it toward her; somehow, he’d mastered himself again. It was quite immobile, and it seemed strange to watch his lips move as he spoke. “I love you, Carolyn,” he said, in precisely-controlled tones.

She blinked. It was all she had ever wanted him to say, but now, it didn’t even _matter_. She gulped. “You don’t need to try and make me feel better, Indy.” Her voice only wobbled a little bit. “You’re more upset than I am.”

He shook his head. “That is--not why. I--” The words stumbled over stiff lips. “I--don’t like to say things like--that. If I say them, then I can’t--then I _will_ be hurt when--” He put a hand to his temple, wrenching it upward as if it was a great effort. “I’m sorry, I’m not quite myself right now.”

“It’s fine,” she whispered and put her arms around his shoulder. “We’re both idiots.”

When the ferry docked, they took another taxi, and this time neither of them discussed the subject of payment. Carolyn quietly pushed some money into the driver’s hand as they got out at the address Indy had given as Margaret’s grandparents’.

Indy didn’t wait to ring the doorbell; he just walked straight in. In the hallway stood a good-looking older man and woman and a crowd of wet police-officers. The man was crying openly; the woman was crumpled in on herself like an old paper-bag. Everyone looked up as Indy and Carolyn entered.

Indy looked at something that one of the police-officers was carrying and his face, already pale, seemed to turn ghastly white in the yellow light of the hallway. He snatched the poor, threadbare coat from the man and turned toward the two grandparents. “Where?” he choked out, and Carolyn crossed the room to him, her heart sinking into the pit of her stomach.

It was the grandmother who answered, her face sagging, lined and old. “It was found in the river. It had floated up against one of the supports of a bridge quite near here.”

~

Margaret didn’t see anyone as she made her way slowly down the main stairway. She had to go slowly because at every step the ground seemed to tilt and shift beneath her. 

Outside it was raining lightly; the moisture collected on her forehead and dripped coldly down her already wet face. She shivered. Where was she going? To the ferry, of course, because if she found the ferry, then she could get back to Iona, and then she could walk home and then Indy would be all right. Then everything would be all right.

Her head felt thick and fuzzy and light. The streetlights were large furry globes, blurred and smeared by the rain. One of them was moving. Perhaps it was a will o’ the wisp. She followed it for a while, but changed direction when the bees started tugging at her coat and pulling her along. They began to buzz cold and stinging about her face, frozen ice-bees, but instead of cooling it, it got warmer.

In fact she was awfully hot and sticky inside her thick woollen coat. Sweat collected uncomfortably in her armpits and the small of her back. The faster she walked, the worse it got, until finally, she stripped off the coat and let the cool rain wash over her. It brought her a little more to her senses just in time for a particularly strong buffet of wind to snatch the coat from her loose hand and whirl it away off the side of the stone bridge where she was standing.

Miserably, she watched it drift down toward the river. She was going to be very cold before she reached Iona, yet her cheeks were still burning. She put up her hands, trying to cool them, but it didn’t really work. She started walking again.

There--the ferry was just ahead. She recognized the solitary lamp-post that cast a warm, yellow glow across the gangplank. An inky-dark line ran perpendicular across it, and for an instant she merely stood and watched it in fascination. Then, as it grew larger, she yelled and began to run, jolted out of her hypnotic fascination.

“Wait!” she yelled. “ _Wait_!” The lighted ground went past in long smearish blurs, the edges of her vision lengthening along with her stride. The noises of the city and ferry faded out to be replaced with the quiet slap slap slap of her feet against the wood. With her last reserves of strength, she threw herself forward, landing heavily on her palms and knees. Stinging pain surged through the skin of her hands, followed closely by a wave of exhaustion. She staggered over to one of the wooden benches that lined the deck of the ferry and collapsed on it, her eyes closing almost before her muscles relaxed.

She woke up with grit in her eyes to a touch on her shoulder and a calm voice asking to see her ticket. She sat up slowly, blinking around and wondering for a long, blank moment why Indy hadn’t just showed the conductor her ticket already. Then, with a heavy thump, she knew he wasn’t here and she didn’t have a ticket.

“I--I--” she stammered. Desperately, she felt in the pockets of her jeans in the hope that magically a ticket or some money would appear, but her hands found nothing but sodden, heavy cloth. “I haven’t got one,” she whispered finally. What would he do? He couldn’t throw her off the boat. No, but he could send her to jail, detain her, stop her from getting to Indy. Why hadn’t she thought of money when she was leaving? Her head ached.

“I’ll pay for her ticket,” said a cheerful voice from behind the ticket collector. “Don’t worry. The poor child looks worn out.”

The ticket-collector turned around, and there were a few moments of muttered conversation inaudible to Margaret. Then he left and the man behind him came and sat beside her. Tall and lanky, his longish blond hair spilled down onto a rather crumpled business suit. “Now then, what are you doing sleeping out here when it’s so damp--good god, child, you’re soaked!”

Margaret nodded, but the movement hurt her already painful head, and she couldn’t restrain a sob. “I’m trying to get to Iona,” she said, sniffling and trying not to look like a complete idiot.

“Iona? But you’re on the ferry to Erisay.”

Black despair soaked up through her bones, and it was all she could do not to start crying. She couldn’t quite remember everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, but she knew that Indy was ill, and she needed to get to him. She must have been ill; her head ached ferociously, and how on earth had she managed to get on the ferry to Erisay instead of the one to Iona? 

The stranger must have seen her face crumple, because he put an arm about her shoulders and proffered a handkerchief. “Don’t cry, it’ll be okay. You can just take the next ferry from Erisay to Iona.”

Margaret nodded. If only she could remember better. If only she could remember what was wrong with Indy--if only she knew what a delay would cost him. “Thank you,” she managed.

He smiled at her, a brilliant, crooked smile that looked very at odds with the formal suit he was wearing. “You look hungry. Why don’t you come into the cabin with me and we’ll get you something to eat? And you’d best get out of those wet clothes--you can wear my jacket. He put a gentle hand on her shoulder, and an ache she hadn’t even noticed pervading her bones lessened.

She was not comfortable with strangers, but he had a nice smile, and she was tired and grateful to him. “All right.”

Inside, the heat and the crowd of people made her head start aching again, and the shadows began to dance like bees in the corner of her eyes. The gentleman--her gentleman, as she was already beginning to think of him--led her between a crowd of people toward the smoky bar. It didn’t look like there would be anywhere to sit, and Margaret tried to ignore her aching feet.

“Excuse me,” her gentleman said to a group of rowdy-looking men. “My daughter is feeling ill, would you mind if we took your seats?”

One of them glared up mutinously, met her gentleman’s eye, and then smiled bemusedly. “Oh…” he said vaguely, glancing at Margaret, who felt the ground beginning to sway underneath her. “Yes, all right. C’mon, chaps, let’s go up for a turn round the deck.”

Margaret thankfully slid into the seat he had vacated, and the stranger slipped into the seat across from her. “Would you like anything to eat or drink?”

It was so dreadfully hot. The last time she’d had ice-cream on a ferry, it hadn’t ended well, but she wasn’t sure she could feel any sicker. Besides, her throat was beginning to hurt, and she’d heard it was good for that. “I’d like some ice cream, if you please,” she said in as formal a tone as she could manage.

“Flavor?” he asked in a businesslike tone.

“Oh, um…” She didn’t really know ice-cream flavors. “Honey?”

He nodded seriously and called over a waitress. A few minutes later, she was handed a tall glass of something creamy-yellow with a layer of foam on the top. Hesitantly, she took a sip. Golden sweetness burst over her tongue, and _she was sitting next to Indy, licking a honeycomb, the first of the season, and she looked up, and he smiled at her, a long, slow smile that had nothing in it but pure happiness that she was enjoying herself._ She blinked slowly and found she was smiling into a pair of warm brown eyes. 

Her gentleman chuckled. “You’ve got some dripping down your chin.”

She flushed but couldn’t quite manage to be embarrassed. “It’s really good. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

The rest of the journey passed in a peculiar haze. Everything seemed to be moving rather slowly, and her head had gone all light again. Her gentleman wouldn’t let her move; he wrapped her up in his coat and put some chairs together for her to lie down on. She couldn’t really sleep, but she passed from dream to dream, and he was always there, talking in his soft burr of a voice, telling her stories, stroking her hot forehead. It wasn’t a Scottish accent he had, but an English one. It floated in and out of her mind, soothing and calm.

Eventually they docked at Erisay. By then, it was raining harder, and it was starting to get dark. The bees had come back. They buzzed around her head, and she was too tired to wave them off. They landed in her hair; she could feel their little feet scratching at her, reminding her how she’d failed, how she was never going to reach Indy. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Don’t cry.” They had just boarded another ferry. Her face was wet, but she’d thought it was the rain. He did not take her hand, but put his hand on her shoulder as if she were a grown-up. It made her feel safe and at the same time, it made her stomach ache. She winced as the bees stung her on the backs of her hands. “Don’t--don’t!” she cried out. “You’ll die!”

She sat up, crying out, and her gentleman held her close and rocked her back and forth. His gentle hands stroked her hair, and he smelled of sandalwood and honey. 

Then she was stumbling down the gangplank again, her head aching but clearer now. Her gentleman’s hand was steady beneath her elbow. “We’re on Iona. We made it.”

She was so tired, but she’d almost made it, she’d almost found him. Now, magically, there was a taxi-- _a taxi_!--waiting to take them where she wanted to go. “I can’t--” she tried to protest.

“Nonsense,” he said briskly. “You need to get where you’re going. I’ll take you there.”

She was too tired to object further, and she let him help her into the back of the cab. When the driver asked her for the address, she gave it in a clear voice that seemed to come from anywhere but inside her.

Rain lashed against the windows, and it was too dark for her to see the landscape. She couldn’t even make out the house until the taxi pulled right up in front of it. None of the lights were on. Oh no. No, no, no.

She flung the door open and stumbled up the drive, past the still, dark shapes of the hives and on up to the front door. Frantically, she grabbed the doorknob and to her consternation, it turned. It wasn’t locked. He would _never_ leave it unlocked. Oh god. Oh god.

She was calling for him, running through the hallways of the house from one room to the other, crashing heedlessly through furniture. Where was he? He had to be here! But his bed, neatly made, was empty. The kitchen, dishes neatly stacked in the drying rack, was empty. Even her room, everything she had not taken with her sitting in its accustomed place, was empty. He was gone.

She was crying now. Had she done this? Where was he? “Oh please,” she said to no one. “Please let him be all right.”

“Here now.” Her gentleman sat on the bed beside her and rubbed her back carefully. “It’s okay.”

She looked up desperately. “He’s _gone_.”

“Who is?”

“M-my dad.”

“You can’t find him?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what to _do_!”

He scratched his head. “This will probably sound stupid, but I bet you know him better than anyone, eh?”

“I--suppose so.” Probably she knew Indy better even than Carolyn did.

“Then you should know where he is.”

“But how _can_ I?”

He patted her hand. “Just think, sweetie.”

The cathedral. If he was anywhere--he and Carolyn used to take her there for picnics, and he was always a little reluctant to leave. She’d overheard him saying to Carolyn what an overwhelming sense of peace it gave him.

“The cathedral--but what if he’s not there?”

“Then we’ll find him. Don’t worry.” He bent over and gave her a giant hug, and she let herself relax for a moment, to the pounding beat of his heart against her cheek, then pulled away.

Compared to the drive from the docks, she knew that it was a short drive to the cathedral, but it didn’t seem short. It seemed as if every moment stretched long and potentially deadly between her and Indy. Though she no longer saw her fever-dream of bees, she could feel them somewhere behind her, begging her not to let their protector be hurt.

The lights were on in the cathedral. Margaret stopped on the doorstep, suddenly fearful. What if he wasn’t there? What if he was fine, and he didn’t want her barging in on him? A sick feeling in her stomach prevented her from pulling the heavy door open.

“Oi, it’s okay,” said her gentleman.

“But I left him,” she whispered.

“He loves you, he’ll forgive you.”

She looked up into the pair of warm, humorous brown eyes and shook her head. “He doesn’t love me.”

The twinge that gave her made tears rise stinging to her eyes. Then she firmed her chin and squeezed her gentleman’s hand. “But I love him,” she continued quietly. “I have to make sure he’s all right.”

“Good luck, Margaret.”

It took everything inside her, but she managed to pull open the heavy wooden doors. 

In the flickering light of hundreds of candles, the nave glowed warm and welcoming. At the far end, Indy knelt in front of the altar, in the midst of lighting yet another candle to join the forest already placed there. She took a few hesitant steps forward, and the weird acoustics of the cathedral bounced his whispered voice to her ears. It was cracked and more vulnerable than she had ever heard it.

“God--or someone--anyone who is out there--please let her not be dead. I swear I will do anything. I’ll never bother her again, never send her a letter, never selfishly ask her to come back here. I don’t have to see her again, only please let her be alive.”

Margaret had to stop, her heart constricting painfully. Was he--talking about _her_? But there was no reason for her to be dead-- She noticed, with surprising clarity, that Indy’s canes had been flung down beside the altar, and that beside them was a packet of candles, which had been so hastily ripped open and flung down that the white objects had spilled out and rolled, in some cases, halfway down the aisle.

“Please. If I ever see her--I will never be impatient with her again. She can have as many pretty dresses as she likes--she can eat anything she likes.” His voice was shaking.

“Indy,” Margaret tried to say, but she couldn’t get more than a hissing whisper to come out of her treacherous throat.

A door to the side opened, and a woman entered, hands circled about a round object. In the flickering half-light, Margaret couldn’t make out her face.

“Indy,” Carolyn’s shockingly familiar voice said, and his head turned toward her. “Here, drink this. It’ll calm you down.”

“I will not take a sedative, Carolyn, I’ve told you already.”

“Indy, you can’t just stay out here--” Margaret had started forward and bumped into one of the pews with a quiet thump. Carolyn’s haggard face turned toward her, and her hands relaxed about the mug she was holding. It hung in silence for a moment, gleaming bone-white in the candlelight, before striking the ground in an explosive crash. Indy turned instantly, clutching at Carolyn’s arm. “Carolyn, what is it--”

Margaret took another diffident step forward. A ball of pain in her throat almost stopped her from breathing. Then, suddenly, as she watched Indy’s face crumple into an expression she simply couldn’t read, she was running down the aisle. “Dad!” she yelled, flinging herself into his arms. “Daddy,” she sobbed, as if she were quite little again and she’d fallen down and scraped her knee.

He held her quietly, his arms strong around her back, his face buried in her hair. He barely seemed to be breathing. “Margaret,” he whispered. “I love you. You can have anything you like-- _anything_! If you want to live with your grandparents, I won’t--I won’t stop you--”

“No!” she stomped her foot like a petulant toddler. “No, I want to live with you, Dad, I _always_ wanted to live with you.”

“Oh god,” he breathed, and his arms about her tightened. “The dress you wanted--you can have it tomorrow.”

“I don’t want the dress!” she gulped. He was all right. He was fine. “I just want to be home.”

He nodded, a quick succession of little jerks that were almost shivering. “You’re home, you never need leave again if you don’t wish to.”

A few deep breaths later, he pulled her out to arms’ length and looked her up and down. “ _Never_ do that again,” he said in a voice that shook more than she’d ever heard it. “I have never been so frightened in all my life.”

She shook her head. “I--I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“Never mind. As long as you’re all right.”

She nodded and looked up at Carolyn, who was hovering awkwardly behind them, looking relieved. “Carolyn, you’re back too.”

Carolyn broke into a smile. “Yes, I’m back.”

“You’ll stay, won’t you?” Margaret asked.

“Well…”

“Please do,” Indy said softly, and Carolyn nodded. She seemed to be shaking a little, and her voice quavered as she said, “I’d better get something to clean up the broken china.”

“How on earth did you get back here with no money? And whose coat is that?”

“My gentleman--” Margaret began and blushed. “I mean, a kind gentleman found me while I was still feverish and brought me back--oh no! I never thanked him properly!”

“He is outside, I suppose? You can thank him now.”

He grimaced as he tried to get to his feet, and Margaret instantly slid underneath him to support him. “Thank you, but you are still weak.”

She glared at him, and he let her help him up and raised a shaky eyebrow at her. “Stubborn as always.”

They made their way down the nave toward the exit. Margaret flung open the door, but there was no one there. “Oh…” she let out her breath in a disappointed sigh. “He left.”

“Did he perhaps cultivate pigeons?” Indy asked sarcastically.

“What?”

Her dad, laughing a little in a way she’d never seen, laid a hand on her shoulder and indicated the drifts of white feathers that lay in snowy piles about the door.


End file.
